Chapter 4 - DEAD FOR NINETY SECONDS
“No pulse!”
Willa climbed over the bench seat before the Bentley had fully stopped.
“Lay him flat.”
Crowley and Mara lowered Everett onto the boathouse floor.
Rain blew through broken windows.
Willa tore open Everett’s shirt.
She began chest compressions.
“One, two, three, four—”
Mara stood frozen.
“What do you need?”
“Portable defibrillator!”
Crowley searched the emergency bag.
“Found it.”
Willa attached the pads.
The screen displayed ventricular fibrillation.
“Everybody clear.”
Shock.
Everett’s body jerked.
Nothing.
“Again.”
Compressions.
Thirty.
Ventilation.
Another rhythm check.
Still fibrillation.
“Clear.”
Second shock.
Nothing.
Willa kept moving.
Her arms burned.
She ignored it.
“You are not dying in a rotten boathouse after making me marry you,” she muttered between compressions.
Mara almost laughed and cried at the same time.
Third rhythm check.
Shockable.
“Clear!”
Third shock.
Everett’s body lifted.
The monitor changed.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Willa grabbed his neck.
Pulse.
Weak.
But there.
“He’s back.”
Mara sank against the wall.
“How long?”
“About ninety seconds.”
Crowley looked toward the road.
“We can’t stay.”
Willa examined Everett’s pupils.
“We need a doctor I can trust.”
Mara shook her head.
“Sterling owns influence at half the private hospitals in the city.”
“I don’t need a hospital.”
She looked at Crowley.
“I need Dr. Naomi Reyes.”
Crowley frowned.
“Who?”
“Trauma physician. Used to work at St. Ambrose.”
“Will she help you?”
Willa hesitated.
Three years earlier, Naomi had been the only doctor who questioned the investigation into Harold Fisk’s death.
She had also been the one who told Willa not to surrender her nursing license without a fight.
Willa had been too exhausted to listen.
“I think so.”
Forty minutes later, Crowley drove into the underground parking garage of a modest apartment building in Evanston.
Mara called Naomi from a prepaid phone.
When the elevator opened, a woman wearing scrub pants and a Northwestern sweatshirt came running out.
Naomi stopped dead when she saw Willa.
“Willa?”
“Hi.”
Naomi stared at Everett on the stretcher.
Then back at Willa.
“Is that Everett Kane?”
“Yes.”
“The Everett Kane?”
“Yes.”
“The unconscious crime lord you married yesterday?”
Willa blinked.
“How did you know?”
Naomi held up her phone.
“You were national tabloid news for twelve hours.”
“Great.”
Naomi looked at the monitor.
“Bring him upstairs.”
Inside her apartment, Naomi converted her dining area into an improvised treatment station.
She examined Everett while Willa explained everything.
The sedation.
The undocumented injections.
The finger responses.
The waking.
The cardiac arrest.
Naomi listened without interrupting.
Finally she looked at Willa.
“Do you still have access to any of the medication?”
Willa pulled the syringe she had kicked beneath the bed from her pocket.
During the blackout she had retrieved it before being removed.
Naomi stared.
“You carried an unknown injection around all night?”
“I was busy.”
Naomi placed it inside a sterile bag.
“I can have a private toxicology lab analyze this.”
“How private?”
“My former residency roommate runs it.”
“Can she be bought?”
“Everyone can be bought.”
Willa looked disappointed.
Naomi added, “But Rina hates Alan Whitfield.”
“That helps.”
Two hours later, Everett stabilized.
He remained extremely weak but no longer required continuous assisted breathing.
Naomi lowered her stethoscope.
“Whoever kept him sedated knew what they were doing.”
Willa nodded.
“There’s more.”
Naomi looked at her.
“Whitfield destroyed my career.”
Willa told her about Harold Fisk.
The medication order.
The forged electronic signature.
The review board.
Naomi sat quietly.
“I always thought that case was wrong.”
“You said so.”
“I should have done more.”
“We all should have done more.”
Naomi looked toward Everett.
“Maybe now we can.”
By noon, toxicology returned preliminary findings.
Naomi read the encrypted email twice.
“What?”
Willa leaned over her shoulder.
The report identified a mixture of dexmedetomidine, midazolam metabolites and another compound.
Naomi pointed at the screen.
“That one is the problem.”
“What is it?”
“An investigational neuromuscular agent.”
Willa stared.
“It paralyzes voluntary movement?”
“In sufficiently high doses.”
“While leaving consciousness intact?”
Naomi nodded slowly.
“Potentially.”
Willa felt physically sick.
Everett had not simply been sedated.
He had been chemically imprisoned inside his own body.
Naomi continued reading.
“This compound was part of a research program six years ago.”
“Where?”
Her eyes lifted.
“St. Ambrose Medical Center.”
Willa froze.
“Who supervised the trial?”
Naomi scrolled.
Then stopped.
Dr. Alan Whitfield.
And beneath his name—
Grant Allison.
The administrator who had pressured the board to revoke Willa’s license.
Mara looked between them.
“So your case and Everett’s are connected.”
Willa’s throat went dry.
The same two men.
Three years apart.
One dead patient.
One trapped billionaire.
No coincidence.
Everett made a sound.
They rushed to him.
His eyes opened.
This time they stayed open.
Willa sat beside him.
“Don’t try to move.”
His gaze found hers.
She smiled carefully.
“You’re safe.”
His voice was barely audible.
“No.”
Willa frowned.
“No what?”
His lips moved slowly.
“Not… safe.”
Crowley closed the curtains.
Mara checked the hallway.
Willa leaned closer.
“Who are we not safe from?”
Everett swallowed painfully.
“Everyone.”
He closed his eyes for several seconds.
Then opened them again.
“Sterling… pawn.”
Mara stiffened.
“If Sterling is a pawn, who’s controlling him?”
Everett looked directly at Willa.
His next words came broken but unmistakable.
“The man… who ruined you.”
Willa stopped breathing.
“Whitfield?”
Everett slowly shook his head.
May you like
Then whispered another name.
“Grant Allison.”
